


Fake It Till You Make It

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Dysphoria, Gen, Mettaton makes of himself whatever the fuck he wants, Mettaton-centric, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, two wrongs make an even bigger wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9529394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: You imagine that you’re you, in this moment. Folding one leg over the other, as a smile adorns perfect lips. Eye lidded, every inch of you the very definition of contempt. You, the true you, is awe-inspiring, and terrible, all at once.Becoming the star of the Underground is much harder than you’d dreamed of.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never written Metton before; this challenge wound up being more difficult than I imagined. 
> 
> I’ve also always wanted to approach this topic, but never felt I could do so respectfully enough. A huge thanks to a friend of mine for being so willing to talk to me about their own personal experiences. They know who they are. My love and respect for you remain absolutely boundless.

 

* * *

 

**I’m learning to love myself.**

**It is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.**

 

* * *

 

It’s not precisely what you were expecting.

For one, it’s square. Positively massive, with a rectangular… “screen” of sorts, composed of a series of buttons sutured in place, rubbery arms, and a wheel. Just a single wheel. In comparison to the majestic blueprints you had spent the majority of your time pouring over this past year, there’s a part of you that’s- dare you say? Disappointed.

“I-it’s temporary, of course,” Alphys assures you. Her glasses are smudged to almost unbearable levels from how often she’s adjusted them, wireframes barely hiding the dark smudges beneath her eyes. This is her baby too. You are her baby. “B-but I’ve been working through the-the, um, calibrations, and once I have everything functioning, there won’t be any need f-for- you won’t need- I mean-”

“Like one of your animes, darling. With the transforming robots?” You aim to finish her sentence with a question and conclusion all at once; to ensure she isn’t spoken over. It’s the way her head lifts and her shoulders puff up in excitement that says you made the right decision.

“P-precisely! Although you won’t have, heh, there won’t be any guns.” She gives you one of her best smiles (rare and practically criminal in being such) before her eyes widen and her hands fly up, waving frantically. “U-unless you want guns! We can add guns!”

“Well of course! What self-respecting robot star would I be, without an elegant set of guns for hands?”

She laughs, because you’re joking. You laugh, because part of you isn’t. Perhaps that’s a talk for another day. Eventually, you both stop. Your eyes go back to the body in front of you.

It’s not what you wanted.

It is, however, the transitional piece, a stepping stone to greatness. With this, you can be corporeal. You can touch, gesticulate- fingers! How you’ve _longed_ for that ever so distant _One Day_ in which you have _fingers._ It is grey and clunky, the lighting scheme she’s provided hardly suits your tastes, and a part of you wonders how anyone will possibly take you seriously, in a form such as that.

You remind yourself that this is what you’ve wanted. With this, you can begin to be who you are.

Alphys clears her throat.

“S-so… I’m not um, sure? Exactly? If uh, I’m supposed to be here right now. Do you mind someone watching? Is this kind of personal? I mean of course it’s personal and I! I should really give you privacy!”

“No, darling. I don’t mind at all.” Again, you find yourself cutting in before Alphys can work herself up further. Twice in a matter of minutes, and her exhaustion is practically palpable. You take the option out of her hands, before she digs herself a hole. Possibly a literal one, which has occurred more than once. “I simply ask that you be silent; I must concentrate.”

“Oh, right! Well I’ll just be. Right over here.” She shuffles back against the wall, throwing you a thumbs up, fiddling with her glasses once more. You don’t have the eyebrow to raise at her, but you imagine what it will be like, when you finally do. You will arch that magnificent brow in the most magnanimous of manners, a sight which all of your fans will know and praise, plastered upon their walls in poster form.

When you float over that rectangle prison, that is what you think of. You think of the things that will come from this; the fame. The fans. You will finally have the ability to accomplish what has only ever been your most wildest of dreams. Wriggling fingers, crinkling toes. When your color scheme is finally that delicate balance of pink and black, when your boots fit snugly against your thighs, and your heels clack against the ground with every motion. You will be capable of so many things. You will sign autographs. You will entertain. You, the star of the Underground.

You will be capable of so many things. And you think to yourself, with a flood of warmth and affection for the monster standing against the wall, smudging her glasses with her fingers, that the very first thing you will do, is clean her glasses.

That is the thought you take with you, when you leave Hapstablook behind, and become someone else entirely.

The person you were always meant to be.

Almost.

 

* * *

 

“I-I think you should probably stay with me for a few days. J-just until we’re both, uh. Until we’re both ready to present you to Asgore.” It’s as firm as Alphys has ever been with you, and  you have no qualms in accepting her judgement. You have no home to go back to, anymore. As you expected, you’ll simply have to start with nothing, and work your way back to the top.

Alphys’ apartment is not designed to accommodate you. It is not sprawling, it is not large; you have difficulty getting through the narrow doorway between the kitchen and the living room, sparking some debate on whether your arms should be retractable, for just these sorts of situations.

There are a variety of situations neither have you had thought to account for. The other, much more blatant issue with her apartment is the stairs. You cannot possibly make it up those stairs, though a game attempt at hefting yourself up on your arms leads to falling back onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling until Alphys rushes to your aid. Your body has been perfectly balanced on it’s one, imperfect wheel. That does not mean you are balanced. Motion, for all it’s wonders and exhilarations, has a period of adaptation to it.

Climbing the stairs is not the only incident in which Alphys comes running to your aid.

Your first days in your new body, and you spend them with her. On the couch watching anime, in the kitchen, watching her stuff noodles into her mouth. Pointing out the design flaws, knocking your heads (her head, your rectangle) together and addressing the slight kinks and major flaws in your design. She adjusts all of them, always keeping her word. Those she can’t, she promises soon. When the part becomes available. When she’s designed the best system for tackling stairs on one wheel.

Alphys, dear and loyal. Alphys, the only one who knows of your existence. This is not what you wanted, but you’re hardly about to complain. In a few days, you’ll take another step. Just a few days.

Except Alphys sleeps on the off occasion, and you do not. Your body still has certain requirements, of course- well charged batteries for motion, for gestures, for sound. You take those times in which the small monster drags herself up the stairs to plug yourself into your charging port, watching anime after anime, and sometimes, you look at yourself in the mirror.

What you see is unsettling. But you tell yourself, remind yourself, that it is simply a stepping stone. That with your assistance, Alphys will no longer need to wait for the perfect parts. That with assisting her comes the freedom of creating your perfect form with the highest quality of materials, with nary a second look at non-existent flaws. You shall be you. You shall be beautiful.

And yet you continue to look in the mirror.

You suppose, by the second day, that your least favorite aspect would be the arms. Rubber in place of hard to gain metals, comical gloves fitting over intricate joints that have become your hands. You are not lumpy. You are not one rubber fold after one rubber fold. You are not a microwave teetering on a thin wire, spinning on its single wheel. You simply aren’t.

Anime gets boring after forty-eight hours. When you’re left alone, you pinch the folds of your arms and tug, watching yourself in the mirror. You don’t know your own strength, yet. You aren’t aware that rubber warps, that elasticity becomes malleable under pressure.

Your left arm shows two stretched out marks, from where your fingers have pinched and tugged. In a fit of panic, you do your best to hide the evidence. You cut the stretched rubber off with scissors.

“N-next time, can you not get in a fight with the door hinges?” Alphys tells you exasperatedly. Your arms have to be removed entirely to fit new rubber into place. And without them, you really are nothing more than a microwave teetering on a thin wire, spinning on a single wheel. They aren’t your arms, but there’s a bittersweet relief, in watching them be fitted back into place.

“Darling, they started it.”

 

* * *

 

Asgore hires Alphys on the spot. As she splutters and hyperventilates under his cheerful (and rather concerned) gaze, you imagine confetti raining from the sky, a dazzling parade of rainbows and a soundtrack to drive the crowds wild.

You decide that this will be the first installation you request from her, once her starry eyes can be pulled away from a luscious golden mane, and jolly smile. In your personal opinion, fur is last century. Metal is the magic of the future.

Of course, the news spreads fast. Of course, Asgore makes an official announcement, far too eager to share good news with the populace. Alphys stands beside him, a nervous wreck as crowds of monsters scream their approval. On the opposite side, you stand; before your crowd, before your people. If you bow, you will fall over. All other gestures seem trivial or meaningless. One does not speak over the king.

You are introduced to them as the Underground’s first anti-human weaponry.

In response, you advise the Underground of your name, for the very first time.

The Underground is less fascinated with Mettaton than you care for. All eyes go to Alphys, a fumbling, pleased mess, and your first day in the public eye is spent helping her move to the laboratory of the Royal Scientist before her. The name escapes you.

Then again, you were never one for science.

“T-this is so much space! I don’t- I’m going to have s-so many things to buy! I need to work out what projects to do! A-and then there’s the work the king asked me to do… I-I don’t know how, but! I’ll think of something! Maybe!”  Your flustered friend darts about underfoot- underwheel, as it were. She talks a mile a minute, going from dopey smiles to almost tugging her scales out, but you know she’s happy. Overwhelmed, but happy.

You are not happy. It is petty, somewhat, to resent the position she’s made herself. With you as her podium, she’s achieved her dreams. Royal Scientist; on first name basis with the king, and a household name throughout the Underground. Less than twenty-four hours into the job, and the most she’s done is move her anime collection from one place to the other.

There’s no reason to resent her successes. There is no reason for such unmitigated bitterness; a lie you two had cultivated yourselves, to present you to the world as a fighting machine, a killer. What the Underground lacked in any sort of amusement, it had made up for these past hundred years in bloodlust. The community you had chosen to serve wasn’t ready to accommodate your real desires- and so you lied.

Hindsight, you remind yourself, is always 20/20. So things thus far haven’t gone the way you expected. Months of planning acted upon. Things are going to take time.

There has always been the expectation that things will take time, but here, now, in a stepping stone of a stepping stone, a microwave with rubber arms, you’re more impatient than you have ever felt before. Perhaps it’s a symptom of corporeality, this sensation of- demanding instantaneous results.

“A-are you even listening to me?” Alphys intrudes upon your thoughts. The urge to snap at her almost overtakes your common sense. It’s rare, for her to demand attention. It’s rare, this feeling of positivity surrounding her.

What kind of friend would you be, to ruin that?

“OF COURSE I AM!” You boom- or rather, you try. Your voicebox is not what you want either; it is not proud and loud, it is not accented and heavy. It sounds like what you were. It sounds like it’s intended to be a whisper.

You are not a whisper, you remind yourself, every time you force your new body to project your voice. You are a bang. You are a star.

“Sure you were… I was s-saying that I think- I think this is a g-great place to put my workbench, s-since you can get up here just fine.” She gestures to an empty patch of wall, shrugging sheepishly. “Th-then we can keep working on your body wh-whenever you feel like.”

“...Darling, that is a fantastic idea.”

Yes.

What kind of friend would you be?

 

* * *

 

Whilst that sense of impatience never truly goes away, the fact that Alphys comes through on every promise she’d make you does wonders in quelling it, leaving your personal dissatisfaction to the silent moments of night, where no one else can see. There are periods of time in which you simply ask- you ask, and Alphys supplies, spending an evening bent over your body with an anime playing downstairs, almost, but not quite, a new tradition for the both of you.

Your entire body is pulled apart and put back together, cultivated purely to avoid the complications of the Underground’s rapidly shifting temperatures. She remains unsatisfied until you can make your way from Snowdin to Hotland with nary a crack, constantly monitoring the pressure such changes make upon your metal shell, until the pressures it faces daily become nary a blip in the wake of what you are. Away goes the rubber casing of your arms, replaced with fine steel- retractable, elegant. Capable of motions that you had once only dreamed of. Your stability improves. One late night too many and an offhand joke later, you have a jet. For the stairs.

More importantly, your boxy form begins to hide what you truly are, perfect in every way. A stepping stone, closer and closer to completion. There are issues with the battery, with certain joints, but one day you stand up as yourself, and the rush of empowerment is enough to leave your SOUL in tearful disarray.

Going back to what you are right now is one of the hardest things you’ve ever done.

A month of this, and you decide you’ve waited long enough. One handsome loan from the Underground’s only Royal Scientist leaves you well on your way to becoming the star you were born to be. Television rights, vibrant posters. You spend night after night pouring over concepts, crossing off ideas far too grandeur for this point in your journey, and quietly tuck others away for another time.

Your very first show is simply you with a camera, wandering the streets of New Home, and asking people’s opinion of you. At the end of the night, you discover that you’d had forty viewers.

You are thrilled. Asgore is also thrilled, and you next show (one in which you cover the Very Real, Very Horrifying Truth of Surface animals) nets you 100 more viewers and the right to ask what you wish of the royal coffers, so long as you do what the king has asked of you. A simple matter, really. Provide hope. Brighten the lives of your public.

In a moment of error, you tell him that this is all you’ve ever wanted. You find yourself imagining open relief in his expression.

You stop paying attention once a Golden figure enters the conversation.

As your own time becomes more and more precious, Alphys is slowly overtaken by the true aspect of her role; the barrier, and human SOULs. It becomes the topic of most of your evenings together; driving her to utter distraction, driving you to utter boredom.

“I-I know we need to work on it, b-but there’s some things- I mean, I can’t really talk about it yet, b-but it’s pretty serious.” Tired as always, Alphys’ words are barely discernable around the cup of noodles she’s practically drowning in. “I j-just need a little time, you know. To focus.”

You move out later that week.

Of course, the fact that you’re something to be placed on hold has absolutely nothing to do with your decision. At the least, it wakes her up somewhat. Work continues- once a week, and the slower pace is enough to grind every gear in your body.

When your first movie comes out, you hand off the first poster to her, signed with love. To thank her for making all your dreams come true.

There’s nothing spiteful about it.

 

* * *

 

One day, Alphys looks up from her work and fixes you with a nervous gaze.

That said, she is practically composed of nervous gestures, and it fails to concern you regardless of how persistent such looks continue to be, increasing in frequency by the minute. You make note of it only when her hand stills, voice airy.

“WHAT NOW, DARLING? BEAUTY IS NOT CREATED BY TIME ALONE.”

“I just-” A huff. She pulls out a handkerchief to dab at her forehead, and you politely keep from mentioning the clear sweat stains building beneath her arms. Her lips move soundlessly for several moments, previously still hands wringing her screwdriver. If you’d dared to do such a thing, your hands would likely pull it’s head off the handle. “Hypothetically…”

Silence. You let her gather her thoughts, patient to a fault. Hardly patient at all, yet you know her. You know better. You cannot conclude a thought that has not made it out of the tangles in her cranium.

“What if this is the best I can do? I-I mean, we’ve been working…a long time.” A vague wave of her hand, claws of her feet scratching against the tiles. “If this is the best- d-do you think you’d be happy like this? If it wasn’t just- if I c-can’t-”

You laugh.

“ALPHYS, ALPHYS.” You boom, you simper. Throwing an arm about her shoulder and ignoring the way she grunts at the added weight. “THAT IS WHO I’M TALKING TO, RIGHT? THE BRILLIANT DOCTOR ALPHYS, ROYAL SCIENTIST, HANDPICKED BY ASGORE HIMSELF!”

“W-we both know that-”

“THAT HE WAS POSITIVELY DAZZLED WITH YOUR ABILITIES! I AGREE! IMAGINE HIS ADMIRATION ONCE YOU PROVE NOT ONLY YOUR SKILLS IN ANTI-HUMAN WARFARE, BUT YOUR ABILITY TO CREATE ABSOLUTE PERFECTION!” You’re fairly certain that her crush on Asgore has long since died down to the smallest of flames, but that hardly stops your satisfaction at the faint tinge of pink on her scales. “WHY, HE’LL SIMPLY DEMAND TO PROPOSE ON THE SPOT! ALPHYS, ROYAL SCIENTIST! ROYAL QUEEN! NOT THE MONSTER WE DESERVE, BUT THE MONSTER WE NEED!”

“Okay, okay, j-jeez,” She shoves you off, muttering under her breath all the while. But she understood what you said just fine, and she’s most certainly flattered. You make a show of pursuing her, of leaning dramatically against the workbench, in the space she isn’t hunched over.

“HOW DID YOU DO IT, THE PEOPLE WILL CRY. ALPHYS, OUR QUEEN, PERFECTLY BEFITTING OF THE INTRODUCTION TO SIZE KINKS FOR MANY OF THE POPULACE. YOU SHALL AWAKEN EVERY MORNING TO A SHOWER OF FUZZY KISSES-”

“Oh my god? Stop?! Stop.” Alphys holds her screwdriver up, a white flag. “I’m working on it, o-okay? Oh my god…”

The mumbles continue for quite some time after that, though you stay quiet. Seemingly, Alphys is satisfied; content with the win of silence, unbroken past the sound of metal being pushed together, parts clicking into place.

She never notices that you didn’t answer her question.

 

You never stop thinking about that question.

 

* * *

 

Garnering the attention of the Underground is simple; keeping that attention is hard. There comes a point where your ratings level out, and inevitably, there comes a time when they begin to drop.

You need to act. You need to act quickly.

With unlimited access to the royal coffers, on top of the copious royalties you yourself had received, it’s time to fish out many of the concepts you’d previously denied yourself. Newstations. Cooking shows. Each and every day, you come up with something more eccentric, more wild. The first time you die on screen, your ratings jump up by a thousand. Your triumphant return from the brink of death itself becomes one of the greatest moments of your acting career.

It’s not enough.

Your first product is MTT brand shampoo, and it sells out (all fifty bottles, at that) in less than an hour. The MTT brand comb is even faster to go, and the exclusive MTT cologne, only one bottle in existence, becomes the thing of legend. As the royal coffers slowly empty, your own pockets become larger, deeper.

One day, you speak to a man about the concept of a hotel.

 

* * *

 

The fallen human and the lost prince were practically a fairytale before you even came on the scene, and the only thing that stands between you and what you want is a dinky little statue. So unloved and faded that the human’s shape is barely discernable, that the prince’s form is distinguished only by the horns atop of faceless figure. You build around the ugly thing, reluctantly.

You’ll fix it later.

 

* * *

 

Construction of your new hotel takes over a year. In that time, work on your body goes from weekly, to monthly, to…

To banging on Alphys’ door one day, yelling about promises.

Nobody comes.

 

 

 

But that is just whatever, isn’t it? You don’t really need her anymore; you don’t need her assistance. You, the true you, is perfect and beautiful and under your ugly little square, simply waiting to be shown to the world. You don’t need her.

Except the problem of power cripples you within hours of strutting through your mansion, and before long, you find yourself tethered. Standing against a wall, plugged into something stronger. You’re not ready.

Your electricity bills are astronomical.

 

* * *

 

The day Asgore cuts you off from almost completely dry coffers is the day you take that dinky statue, and dump it where it belongs. Days later, someone else takes it. You have no idea where it goes to.

But good riddance.

 

* * *

 

You. The you that’s been dreamed of, the you that you are, stands at a wall. There is only one thing standing between you and the rest of the world. Alphys has not answered any of your calls.

You click your heels against marble floors, until you put a boot through the wall.

 

* * *

 

This is not enough.

This is not enough, as you stand vexingly at the very precipice of everything you’ve ever wanted. The fame you have always deserved, the shows. The movie rights, the sponsors. You have it all. You have everything except yourself, ready and willing to be shown to the world.

You discover, one day, that you can buy kits online, to help yourself become more rectangular.

If you’d had true vocal chords, you would have laughed yourself hoarse.

 

* * *

 

Eight movies and fifteen television series later, Alphys calls you. Your phone is littered with the names of some of the most prestigious monsters New Home has to offer- including Asgore’s, though his calls have been screened for some time now.

You let your phone ring twice, unsurprised when she loses confidence, and hangs up.

Then she calls you again.

And again.

You have no problems in calling it spite, letting this little game drag on. She calls you on eight separate occasions in a matter of minutes, and you are always, always, just _too slow_ in picking up. There’s a significant amount of satisfaction, in letting her wallow in whatever mess she’s gotten herself into. You expect a litany of apologies, when you finally call her back. Imagine how much better it would be, if you left her to wring her claws for the rest of the day.

You call back within five minutes.

“DARLING! YOU CALLED?” The wall lights up, reflecting the color of the buttons that compose your screen. Vibrant red and orange, in the shape of a smile. “EIGHT TIMES?”

“I did! I just- I just- I really- I need your help.”

You don’t get the litany of apologies.  And perhaps it’s petty, for that to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Petty, in the same way it was petty, that every success she had was owed to your transformation. Pretty, in the same way she had abandoned you when she was done.

Petty. Now and again, you really do enjoy being petty.

“YOU. NEED MY HELP.”

“Yes! Yes, I r-really do! I-I mean, I know we haven’t...we haven’t been close for a while. Both, ha ha, busy, I guess. So if you don’t think, um. If you! Can’t! Then that’s-!”

“ALPHYS, DARLING,” You aim to finish her sentence with a conclusion. You ensure she’s spoken over, in the way people are when their words truly do not matter anymore. “I ASSURE YOU, IF THERE WERE EVER A WAY I COULD PAY YOU BACK FOR ALL YOU’VE DONE FOR ME, I WOULDN’T HESITATE FOR A MOMENT.”

Not even one.

You hear her exhale slowly, and you imagine that you’re you, in this moment. Folding one leg over the other, as a smile adorns perfect lips. Eye lidded, every inch of you the very definition of contempt. You, the true you, is awe-inspiring and terrible all at once.

You, who you really are, doesn’t care for being slighted and used.

You, who you really are

 

Finally has the perfect debut, before you leave this miserable place forever.

 

It pays to be a good friend.


End file.
